Ghost Of A Chance

 

I have to say that of all the erotic stories I have written, this one is my all time favourite, so I have placed it last, to round off the collection for you.

 

‘This is Marshall Gains of Comentel. Your CV was very impressive, Ms. Fordingham. I assume that you received our letter confirming you are one of the five short-listed applicants? Then be in my office at 3 p.m. tomorrow, the 31st October at 3 p.m sharp.”

No chance to confirm she had indeed received the fancy headed notepaper from Comentel pic, or that she was pleased to be on the shortlist. Robyn simply melted under the voice and the invitation which arose unspoken in her quim, soaking the Janet Reger knickers and demolishing briefly the cold core that the last man had left in her heart.

“That would be fine,” she all but croaked, covered the mouthpiece, coughed and tried again. “That will be fine.” Strong manly name to go with the strong manly voice. And a name that struck a tiny distant bell, as faint but as piercing as a temple bell somewhere. Who, what, when...? “I’ll be there. I look forward to it.”

“Thank you, Ms. Fordingham. I’ll expect you.” There was a firm finality even to the way the line went dead in her hands.

A deadline. Or it should have been but there was a vibration lingering, a sense of—something alive, something whispering, a voice not quite heard, a sense of something not quite touching—as if—as if it wasn’t in the real world but ghostly, otherworldly.

Robyn shook her head in disbelief at her own over-active imagination, laughed a little awkwardly and put the phone down.

It was hard to say why having an interview on Halloween filled Robyn with fear and dread and unaccountable butterflies. But she intended to go.

So, what to wear? And what excuse to give to get out of work at 3 p.m.?

It wasn’t that she was unhappy in her job, just frustrated. Just feeling held back by male chauvinists who thought a woman’s place was behind a word processor and not up front at board meetings and decision-taking conferences. Robyn didn’t want much: just a job where she had an office with her name on the door, two telephones, one for the building and one which linked her to the outside world and a calendar which came with clusters of appointments to keep her busy all day and every day.

Somewhere her power dressing was appreciated.

Oh, if you were adding wants to the list, add a hunky man with lust in his eyes and electricity in his fingertips, a strong body and a powerful tongue. That would go down nicely too. Ha! Go down is precisely what she wanted; to do and have done! She sighed, thinking once more of the last man in her life. He was good at going down and liked her to do it too but it was almost a shallow connection, it was as if something was missing. He had left her inner self totally untouched, unmelted. He had been unable to warm her by a single centigrade line. What exactly was missing, she didn’t know. What she did know was that she wanted a big strong man in her arms, in her quim, in her bed and in her life.

Think employment, Robyn! Not Lust!

Was Comentel pic the place for her? Their headed paper was impressive: gold embossed, sensuously creamy, making her long to finally give way to the irresistible urge to run her fingers over it, eyes shut, mouth open and reel sexy. Hm. Back to lust. None of it helped by the products they manufactured. Sex toys. It might add to the frustration but the job was high-powered executive Personal Assistant. To a guy who sounded hunky. Who might be good between the sheets or behind the desk or whatever...

She didn’t think she had a ghost of a chance, not really. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

In any event she wanted to see the owner of the voice, husky, edged with stern control over its life, the voice which said “I am in control of my life—and yours.” I make my own decisions, she thought defiantly, I am the one who controls my life! Why else would I be seeking a new, more powerful, job, one that would give me—perhaps—equal standing with the men in the business.

And yet... Someone else in control, that was something entirely new, very different and frighteningly appealing.

Marshall Gains. Who was he? Where and why did the name ring that distant temple bell?

 

The 31st dawned bright and clear, autumn touched with winter, the chill sharp but the sun glorious. How different it would be when the dark came down to reclaim the land for itself, when the spirits walked, when opening the door might or might not reveal bright-eyed, greedy children on the doorstep...

Robyn scolded herself. Halloween nonsense was getting to her! But still, it might be fun to sample a few superstitions that night, to find out if her one True Love was just around the corner.

She laughed, taking her smart red suit from the wardrobe, adding it to the crisp white blouse with its lace jabot, sliding dark grey high heels over pearl grey stockings, scooping up a dark grey bag and walking out to her car. She would be going on to the interview from her current job, conveniently excused for a dental appointment, but surely they would know. Who wore bright red suits to go the dentist? Unless you were having an extraction and wanted to hide the blood stains...

Spooky thoughts again, she laughed. The car started with a roar, the day had begun.

By 2.30 Robyn was a bag of nerves, unable to sit still. When impatience became sheer panic, she logged off her terminal, got up and made for the door.

“Dentist,” she reminded her work mates and noted their disbelieving smiles as she swung through the door.

The Comentel offices were everything she had ever wanted to work in. Glass, steel and marble, fronted with huge letters, glittering with winter sunshine, even the autumn leaves seemed a part of the colouring, part of the design of this huge impressive building.

Robyn walked in confidently, hoping her nerves didn’t show. The huge clock in the Reception area read 2.50. In good time.

“I’ve an appointment with Marshall Gains,” she told the receptionist, who was even more powerfully dressed than Robyn herself. Impossibly lacquered hair and equally impossible long nails without so much as a hint of a chip or a scratch on the immaculate red enamel. Robyn almost felt dowdy in comparison.

“Fifth floor.” The voice matched the looks, cool, impassive and very much in control. With what she hoped was a regal nod, Robyn walked to the bank of elevators and pressed the button.

He was standing in the corridor. Robyn almost walked into him, then stood back, aware of the hint of Kouros from his body, the hint of a smile from dark grey eyes that almost matched her shoes and lips that were severe and yet sensual. A face which was carved from the marble that graced the foyer, but exuding manliness and superiority. A face she thought she knew, but couldn’t place.

“Ms. Fordingham. So glad you could make it. Do come in.”

With a handshake as firm as the foundations, he led the way to an office which stretched out forever. If money was shown in floor space, then this firm had plenty of money.

Robyn sank into leather upholstery, accepted a crystal glass of sherry, watched as the body of her dreams walked round the desk, aware she was oozing into the new knickers bought specially for today. Dentist indeed! Then she wore comfort knickers...

“Excuse me, Mr. Gains?” She put the glass down, trying to concentrate.

“I said, you are aware Comentel makes sex toys, Ms. Fordingham?”

“Oh yes, yes, I did know. I read your brochure most carefully.”

And creamed over it in bed. But don’t hint at that. Be professional. “It would be a new sideline.”

He smiled, carefully, but it did for a fleeting second touch his yes. “You will of course appreciate that the job entails more than the usual PA requirements.” He paused. “I know you may find this highly irregular but—” He opened a drawer in the desk, produced a range of vibrators, slim, fat, smooth, ribbed, and held them out to Robyn. “I want you to demonstrate these for me.”

It was like being in a dream, an erotic and waking dream when every pulse in her body shouted YES! Because, like it or not, it had not been an invitation, but an order. As if in a trance, she eased down her now wet knickers, dropped them inelegantly on the floor, watching the rippling muscles under the precisely ironed shirt, picturing the bulge growing under the trousers. She picked up the first vibrator, twisted the end and slipped it with sure and quick fingers deep into her throbbing slit, imagining it was the cock she pictured belonging to the man who had given her an order and whom she had obeyed without question.

As the humming decreased in noise but increased in intensity, she became aware of her face blushing bright red with embarrassment as the full force of what she was really doing suddenly struck home. Never in a thousand years would she have contemplated doing something as shameful, lustful—sluttish—as demonstrating a vibrator to a man she had known all of five minutes. But she was, and with tremendous zest and enthusiasm, too.

Head back, legs apart, skirt around her waist, she stood self-conscious and yet somehow proud, thrusting the vibrators, one after the other, deep, deep inside her, gaze locked on his face which grew more lustful by the second. Was she reaching him, was he pleased with her performance, was she really in line for the job and would the job entail much of this demonstration stuff?

The sheer exhibitionism of it was an aphrodisiac too. Nearly as much as the man with the set firm lips revealing nothing of what he was really feeling and the eyes which were locked onto her but which also revealed nothing. Just as she was about to reach a screaming, body shattering orgasm, he strode around the desk and snatched the vibrator from her.

“Now you must sample the other goods we sell.” He was a tall, dignified dominant figure, full of power. Robyn was aware in a fleeting moment that she had always been the one who wanted to dominate, the powerful one. Yet here she was with a new desire, to give way, to submit, to try and please the man standing swinging what looked like a leather strap of some kind which surely could have only one application.

The feeling was calling to a part of her mostly left hidden under the blanket of power-dressed relationships, trivial, frivolous relationships that meant nothing. A part that she had, up to now, no idea really existed inside her. And in that moment she knew what she had to do. She walked over to the desk and leaned over it, stretching the red suit to its limits, knowing the skirt around her waist was displaying all, knowing he was close and could see and probably smell everything. The positions had been reversed. She was vulnerable and not powerful any more.

He made her wait. The air conditioning struck cool on her exposed skin. She wondered idiotically if her musky smell of arousal was masked by her perfume and if indeed it mattered to this man who had so completely taken over her body and her senses.

And also wondered idiotically and pathetically if she had made any impression on this powerful man and what she would feel if she hadn’t. Then it was too late to think any more—only feel.

“You seem to have an appreciation of the right way to behave, Ms. Fordingham. That is very good, a credit to you. Now, I should warn you that a two tailed tawse can do a lot of damage.”

She yelped as the leather made contact with her unprepared, unprotected skin. It hurt far more than she would have believed, a burning band of pure pain. So, why did she lie there and take five more stinging slaps? What force held her face down over the desk, breasts crushed behind the frilly blouse and tight jacket, the remainder of her burning with heat and probably bright red, exposed and available to his gaze? And was that moisture she felt, trickling so obviously down the insides of her thighs?

She stayed there even after he had stopped, hearing him move around, wondering what he was doing and then finding out, very soon and very painfully.

“And then there is the paddle, leather covered of course, for maximum impact,” and again a heavy dark pain radiated through her buttocks, reaching the points the vibrators had missed.

Acquiescent and totally submissive, marvelling at the need which swept over her, the desire to throw herself at his feet and demand that he take her, no, that was wrong, beg him to take her as his slave, she lay still, burning with as much embarrassment as with the strokes he was aiming at her raw, stinging cheeks, now probably scarlet as he went on delivering blow after blow, and she took it. All of it.

And the core of ice, so long a central part of her being, melted and ran down to become a burning pool of liquid which was going to explode at any moment. Just as the liquid reached boiling point, a large shapely cock rammed deep into her body, warm strong balls slapped against the reddened cheeks, powerful hands pulled at her hips, drawing her back so the plunges became stronger and harder. She cried out as they climaxed together.

“Stand up, Ms. Fordingham.” She pushed herself off the desk, adjusted her skirt, looked at his glowing eyes with her own which burned with equal intensity and only just matched the burning fire in her bottom.

“You acquitted yourself very well. None of the other interviewees got far: most ran at the first sight of the items we sell. But truthfully, it was no more than I expected. Your CV gave me every indication you would be right for this job.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gains.” She was ridiculously grateful, even more for his praise than for the job.

“We will be in touch with the details.”

Somehow she was out of the door clutching wet crumpled knickers which she thrust into her pocket. Somehow she was in that long corridor and then the elevator which felt as if it could house half of Wembley Stadium, somehow she was in Reception, looking dazed and shocked and surely rumpled, with smudged makeup and tousled hair. Not to mention some stray tears and an ache in her body from the burning stripes which did not want to fade, from the sore pussy which had been so roughly and yet so willingly taken.

Was this really the high-flying Robyn Fordingham, wanting to be a submissive little slave?

Indeed it was and the man she craved was up there, in the high-flying offices of the business which had just hired her. Stupidly, she missed him terribly, his voice, his touch, his power.

Already. The starting date for the job could not come soon enough.

 

The large clock on the Reception office wall read 2.50.

“Ms. Fordingham?” The cool sharp receptionist was standing in front of her, all red nails and unchipped professionalism. “I am so sorry, Ms. Fordingham, did you not get our letter saying the interview had to be cancelled?”

“Cancelled? I don’t...”

“You were to see Mr. Gains, were you not? He was killed last week on his way to the office. I am so sorry to tell you like this. It did come as an awful shock to us, as you might imagine.”

Robyn turned and stumbled out of the door, aware of her red burning cheeks, aware of the red framed calendar on the receptionist’s desk, the one which shouted 31st October.

“Whoever takes over will need a PA, Ms. Fordingham, we’ll be in touch with another appointment.” The cool voice floated after her, cool as the afternoon chill, cool as the air touching her burning quim and her burning heart.

Marshall Gains was dead.

Marshall Gains had been in the office, had watched her fuck herself with the company’s products, had beaten her with the company’s products and fucked her with his own equipment.

Marshall Gains had awakened her, awakened her need to submit, to give and go on giving. While he was dead.

On a whim she could not understand, Robyn turned back, saw that the Receptionist had disappeared for a moment from her vantage point and she raced for the elevators. She stabbed at the button for the fifth floor, willing the slow but efficient equipment to lift her up, away from what had become a dream state she could not quite comprehend.

The doors finally opened. The corridor stretched endlessly before her. Were his footprints impressed somewhere in this deep pile carpet which edged to the wall and cushioned the feet?

Was this the door he had opened with a hand as firm as the foundations, was this the acre of carpet she had crossed, was this the desk she had leaned over?

The office was empty. Cold and empty, with not a hint of occupation or use. The crystal glass of sherry should still be there, on the side table where she had left it, the vibrators should be there, on the desk, the chair should be pushed back, where he had strode round to confront her, equipment in hand.

Robyn sank to the floor, the thick pile carpet not quite thick enough to stop the quiver which went through her as her stripes were caressed by the tufts. Now the tears came and they could not be held back, tears for the pain she felt, physically and emotionally, at being so close to her heart’s desire and then to lose it.

Marshall Gains. Her lover. Her master.

The bells of recognition rang louder and she remembered. The tall lanky student with zits who arrived on her doorstep on Valentine’s Day clutching a card and a rose which he handed to her with a stammering, “I will always love you!” She had told everyone at school and they had laughed and pointed and sympathised with her for having such an unappealing suitor. Ten long years ago.

Who would have thought he would grow into such an impressive man with such good looks and such a powerful personality?

Who would have thought he would have gone on loving her, for surely he did, to come back from the grave to dominate and subdue her! Maybe it was a tiny bit of revenge, too—something she would never know.

What she did know was that she had found something magically sexual, extraordinarily fulfilling and wonderful. And to think it was all gone, dead and gone!

She got to her feet slowly, searching the office for a hint of the man who had had such a profound effect in such a short time.

There was nothing there.

Nothing but a hint of laughter riding on the air conditioning.

Nothing but the hint of her juices on the edge of the desk.